Page 48 of Covert Desires

What I need is to stay right here, live my quiet life, and be the wise old innkeeper with lots of hobbies.

The chaos in my mind shows no signs of slowing as I drag myself into a shower, scrubbing my body under the steaming water.

I have no idea what to do next.

Coffee, I need coffee.

Let’s start there.

Bit by bit, I compartmentalize my life, breaking it into tasks.

By the time I turn the shower off, I feel better, more centered. It’s a farce built on shaky willpower at best but it’s all I have.

Throwing on a dirty dress from the washing basket without bothering with underwear, I tie my hair up into a messy ponytail.

I know what I need to do next: I need to put on the kettle.

However, as soon as I leave the steamed-up bathroom, my carefully laid plans dissipate like mist.

Nico stands by the window, fully naked still, watching the waves crash against the shore. The morning light catches the tattoos wrapping around his torso, turning them almost beautiful.

He turns at my approach, those haunted eyes finding mine. Something flickers in their depths—vulnerability, need, fear. His fingers clench and unclench at his sides.

"Hey," I say, trying to hide the awkwardness in my voice as I head for the kitchen.

He follows, his footsteps silent on the hardwood. I can feel his presence behind me, electric and uncertain.

When I reach for the coffee, his hand catches my wrist.

"Kiah." My name sounds like a prayer on his lips.

I turn, and the look on his face steals my breath. Gone is the arrogant mafia prince. In his place stands a man at war with himself.

He takes a step closer, then another, until his forehead rests against mine. His breathing is ragged, uneven.

"I can't..." he starts, his voice breaking. "I don't know how..."

“What do you want?” I ask, confusion settling on my brow.

Nico considers the question but doesn’t speak.

Instead, slowly, as if fighting against his own body, he sinks to his knees, kneeling before me on the hardwood.

The sight of him on his knees freezes me in place. My heart pounds against my ribs, a war drum of confusion and desire.

This is dangerous.

But I can't look away from the proud man brought low before me, his shoulders trembling with barely contained emotion. The collar I placed around his neck gleams in the morning light, a reminder of our strange dance of power.

"Please," he whispers again, the word barely audible as he looks up at me with neediness in his eyes, a desire that knows no name, no words—something raw, primal.

My hand moves of its own accord, fingers threading through his dark hair. He leans into my touch like a man starved for gentleness.

This is madness. He's a mobster, a killer, a man who held a knife to my throat. I should be running, not...

But the way he yields to me ignites something I thought I'd lost. Something that was taken from me that night on the docks, along with my blood and trust.

"Look at me," I command, my voice stronger than I feel.

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